


Destiny (noun): the hidden power believed to control future events; fate

by TooRational



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fate & Destiny, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Omniscient, Pete Wentz Needs a Hug, Podfic Welcome, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Retelling, Soulmates, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weirdness, mentions of overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22264924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: What if there is a moment, a tipping point, a path of divergence in one's life, and it's taken instead of it slipping through clumsy, unaware fingers? What if we changea single thing, early on, and it snowballs into a completely different reality?What if a pair of platonic soulmates and life partners have a chance to become something more?And what if they take it.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 18
Kudos: 60





	Destiny (noun): the hidden power believed to control future events; fate

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Lies, untruths, complete fabrication, written for fun. This is an alternate universe that just accidentally looks like ours, nothing else. Blessings on all these lovely people and their loved ones, may they live in happiness and health for a very, very long time. (And if you dare bother them, I'm personally going to kick the shit out of your disrespectful ass. You've been warned.)

You can't change your sexuality. That's a fact. There is no element of decision to it; you are who you are, you like who you like. If we could choose who we fall in love with, the world would be a very different place. Easier in so many ways. Horribly boring, too.

But consider this: sexuality is a spectrum. It's a sliding scale, not a switch.

Consider this, too: we are all shaped by our surroundings. The age old nature vs. nurture debate cannot be decided; it's always judged on a case-to-case basis. What if we lived in a society less worried — nay, _obsessed_ with who we love and if it's appropriate? What if our minds were fed acceptance and diversity from the very minute we were born? What if we start the story now, or twenty years from now, instead of in 1979?

What if there is a moment, a tipping point, a path of divergence in one's life, and it's taken instead of it slipping through clumsy, unaware fingers? What if we change _a single thing_ , early on, and it snowballs into a completely different reality?

What if a pair of platonic soulmates and life partners have a chance to become something more?

And what if they take it.

***

First there's nothing there.

They meet on an otherwise ordinary day, and instead of a lightning bolt of mutual attraction and Destiny™, there's an ever so slight, interested

_'huh'_

in the back of their minds.

It's an identical _'huh'_ , mind you, the sound of aforementioned Destiny lifting its sleepy head from its folded paws and spreading its wings.

Not that they would know it. They're too busy pushing, testing, and fighting each other straight into a lifelong relationship.

You see, someone very wise once said that soulmates aren't born, they're made one step at a time, by choosing that one person and what it means to you over something else; and then doing _that_ again, and again, and again, and never stopping or giving up on them.

That would say, the fact that both Pete and Patrick chose to be their honest, unrestrained selves with each other watered the planted seed, while the fact that a common interest kept them seeing each other gave it enough sunshine to blossom.

Or is it the other way around? Does that first meeting imply they would have found a way to stay in each others' lives no matter what because of that initial, destined connection?

Not even Destiny itself knows.

But the connection is formed. Now the only thing left is to see which type of flower blooms from it.

***

It's a game of missed opportunities and misunderstandings after that, for the longest time.

First it's Patrick being young enough for both of them to ignore the Possibility for very different reasons: Patrick because he doesn't believe someone like him would be interesting to someone like Pete in any but a purely intellectual way: as a music guy, as a songwriter, as someone to talk to and fight with, and _not_ a candidate for teenage make-outs.

For Pete, it's trying not to endanger the thing he _knows_ , deep in his bones, to be the chance of a lifetime. And for a guy with his (disastrous) luck in hook-ups and relationships, it's a no-brainer: Patrick is off-limits, and that's that.

Both decide and stick to the decision with the single-mindedness of youth, without thinking there is a life beyond the present, without imagining the possibility of their realities changing any time soon.

Strangely, the situation _does_ stay unchanged for the longest time, through shitty venues, and tours in crappy vans, and their first record. It's an anomaly and the exception that confirms the rule: while they grow closer, entwine lives and thoughts further and tighter, the thin barrier that keeps them from tipping over into something more holds true. It's the cling wrap and the plexiglas between them; as suffocating for growth of any kind as it is unbreakable.

 _But_ — and this is the divergence point, pay attention — in this case, they are both aware of their situation, of the Possibility, and consider it an option. As far-fetched, improbable, and unwise it may seem, it's still _an option_.

And _that_ changes everything.

***

Missed opportunity number three: Pete always has a girlfriend, or a hook-up, somewhere in his pocket. Competing with that doesn't even cross Patrick's mind.

Pete shines bright enough to pull people in, and Patrick's not precisely _immune_ but he sees past the outer layer and into the swirling colors beneath.

They're as beautiful as they are deadly, cutting into whatever comes too close, like a whirlwind of tiny, sharp knives.

Mostly, it cuts into Pete himself.

Patrick has no idea how to help with that.

***

Missed connection the fourth: Patrick gets a girlfriend.

Pete notices.

Pete hates her _guts_.

It's not jealousy, though, truly. It's because he's sure she doesn't care about Patrick in the right ways. She doesn't share his interests, she doesn't listen to him, she won't come on tour with them, she _doesn't_ and _won't_ and _can't_ all throughout their relationship, and nothing ever works without a compromise from Patrick.

Pete doesn't like it. Any of it.

Eventually she cheats on Patrick and it all devolves into dramatic scenes and terrible heartbreak, and Pete is both hurting for Patrick and rejoicing in the fact that she's gone.

Patrick is entirely Pete's once again. It should be weird, how happy he is about that. How relieved.

Sure, Pete sometimes has to chase him across the stage or hold on too hard because Patrick keeps slipping sideways, away, further and further; but it's all good.

The pressure and obligations keep piling up, too, but Pete can handle those. It's what he wanted, after all, he can't complain about it _now_. It would be _supremely_ ungrateful.

The amount of sycophants and leeches around them doubles, then triples, but Pete doesn't worry too much about those. The world shines _so bright_ for Pete, he needs sunglasses not to go blind.

He ignores the fact that happiness isn't supposed to _hurt_ so much with expertise born from years of practice. After all, he never learned different.

***

Patrick watches Pete spin higher and higher, watches the band start to get traction, slowly but surely, and it's awesome, he's grateful for it, but…

A collapse is inevitable. He sees it with a clarity he cannot explain, one that defies his age but he's nonetheless sure of. There's just nothing he can do or say to stop it.

It eats him up from the inside.

***

Pete overdoses.

It's not deliberate, but…

He definitely _does not_ want to die, but...

It's an accident. A misstep, like hitting a patch of black ice on the road and then not correcting for a second too long.

_But…_

But but _but_.

Pete doesn't know what's behind all those ' _but_ 's.

He just knows he fell apart in all the possible ways, and isn't sure there's a way to fix him.

***

The hug Patrick pulls Pete into when they see each other after the European leg of the tour is _bone-cracking_ , desperate, and Patrick is so frantic he almost does something _stupid_ , almost tells Pete—

He almost _tells Pete_.

But he doesn't, in the end, and they both ignore the implications, _again_ , chalk everything up to a disaster nearly missed, consider the situation too fragile and precarious to introduce more chaos to it.

It will prove to be…

Hmm.

***

Time speeds up and stretches out like taffy.

The band takes off in ways Pete never would have dared to dream of, seventeen and screaming about heartbreak into a mike in some basement in Wilmette.

He slows down a little, aware of the path he's on and how easy it is to slide from it straight into the abyss, but he continues to suppress and hide, puts on a public persona like a particularly vile mask, takes the attention to keep it away from the others. He deals with it all while dealing with none of it, choosing other ways of silencing the screaming in his head and snuffing out the desire for a single peaceful moment in the chaos.

After all, didn't he ask for this? The fame, the glory, the attention and adoration that goes with it? What right does he have to despise it all now, look down on it?

Then the 'Peterick' thing suddenly starts blowing up.

And everything goes a little sideways.

***

Pete, for all his loudmouth manic performance antics, knows what draws the attention. He knows what sells, he knows promotion, he knows the way the world works.

So what if he plays up what he feels for Patrick for the audience? So what if he embellishes a little? They all eat it up, can't get enough; it's addictive in a way.

Pete starts pushing further and further.

He draws closer to Patrick during shows, gives outrageous sound bites in interviews, starts saying shit like 'gay above the waist', starts _practicing_ it on a few random guys who don't seem to recognize him.

It's all exhilarating, intoxicating in the best and worst ways. It spins him up and draws him in, and he starts to believe his own bullshit, the very legend he _himself_ spun out for the naive, gullible public.

It's not lying if he actually does it.

It's not fake if he really feels something for Patrick.

Patrick, though…

He's somehow the one variable Pete overlooks. The most important piece of the puzzle, the King of this chess game to Pete's Queen, and he _forgets_ to predict _Him_.

And it would have been so easy, so _simple_. Because Pete thought Patrick would stay passive, when he contemplated it at all, in that absent, fleeting way. He thought he'd give in and play along.

Patrick does the most Patrick thing he's ever done: he digs his heels in, and starts pulling away.

Pete would curse himself for it, but he more than deserves it. He overestimated his own importance, and underestimated Patrick's profound dislike of the spotlight.

There are no words for how monumentally stupid Pete's been.

How monumentally _fucked_ he is.

***

There is a wild, split-second moment when Patrick thinks about giving in, answering Pete's performance and calling him on his bullshit.

Because that's what it is, pure _bullshit_.

If Pete had _ever_ tried any of the shit he does on stage, or in front of a microphone, an audience, whatever— if he tried it when him and Patrick were alone, Patrick would have thought about it. He really would. He'd believe, at least for a little while, the lie Pete is spinning. It's such a pretty lie, after all.

And then, who knows?

Well.

Not them. Not _now_.

In Patrick's opinion, bitter and hurt, probably not _ever_.

The door of opportunity inches more and more towards shut.

***

Pete, with a girl in every port and the occasional guy in some of them, with a trail of broken relationships after him, sworn never to do it again, falls in love.

Against all odds, it works.

Pete gets married.

Pete has a kid.

Suddenly, the situation is… incredibly complicated.

This is the level of fucked-up his life has become: Pete's not sure _why_ his life is complicated, he just knows that it _is_.

And when he's all alone, in the witching hours of the night, he feels as if a door is closing right into his face, like something is shrinking away from him and he can't quite reach it, no matter how far he stretches.

It's squeezing the life out of him, this feeling.

This _loss_.

***

Patrick stands by Pete's side at his wedding, holds his kid and almost gets pooped on when he visits, and he's _happy_ for Pete.

He truly is.

After all, he'll always have Pete's words, and attention, and the connection that no one else has with him, one that's so special the entire world sees it.

Wouldn't it be greedy to ask for more?

Wouldn't it anger the Old Gods of Fortune and Vengeance to mourn what could have been, if you have so much already?

Wouldn't it be stupid to cry, one last time, before shoving it all into a box deep inside and swearing to himself never to open it again.

Patrick moves on.

***

Or so he thinks.

Destiny isn't done with him yet.

More fuckery is afoot.

***

Pete doesn't notice the Beast he created starting to suffocate him, and the band, for a long time.

The Beast grew, as he wanted it to.

The Beast outgrew them all.

The Beast, which Pete carried in his chest all on his own for as long as he can remember, got out and started wrecking his entire world.

It starts with one of Pete's weakest points, the person he'd always feared losing, the one who deserved better than Pete and his bullshit from the start, his forever blue—

 _Patrick_.

***

"We need to take a break," Patrick says, and Pete's head fills with a rushing sound.

"No, what— we have a bunch of stuff lined up, we can't pull out, don't be _ridiculous_ , Patrick—"

"I'm not saying now. We do all we promised to do, as long as that takes, and after we go on hiatus."

Pete wants to object, but it's said in such a level, calm tone of voice, he knows with a visceral dread that it's decided.

"I agree," Joe adds, leg bouncing. "We've been running full speed through albums and tours for 8 years now. We need time off."

"Andy?" Pete asks, wondering if there was a meeting he wasn't invited to, if they all agreed to this beforehand. If they're trying to get rid of Pete. If he finally pushed them all over the edge.

The thought hurts so much, it takes his breath away.

"I'm… I'm good. I don't think I need a break," Andy says, looking a little bewildered.

Pete has an entire second to be grateful before Andy hammers the last nail into the coffin.

"But if you guys need a break, we can do that. I mean, we can't make you do things you don't wanna do, so…"

Pete will hold on to that 'we' for a long, _long_ time. It will make all the difference.

Patrick looks at him, eyes worried.

"Pete? We all have to agree to this."

 _Now_ he asks. Now he thinks of—

"Yeah. Sure. Do whatever the _fuck_ you want," Pete says, and slams the door on his way out of the studio.

Pete has a kid, and a family to think of, and a million side projects.

He doesn't need this fucking band _at all_.

***

Patrick is doing damage control the only way he knows how to: he retreats, boxes up his heart and puts it away.

He tells himself everything he saw from Pete was wishful thinking, that it only existed in his head, that it was a passing phase or a mildly curious interest at best.

But even with all that, he's clear-headed enough to see the strain the band is under. He cares enough to _want_ a band, _still_ , even at the cost of his heart. And they won't have one if they don't take a break.

So Patrick arranges one. Simple as that.

He just doesn't expect Pete's reaction to be so…

Visceral.

***

"Just go! You don't want to stay, don't let me keep you. And don't let the door fucking hit you on your way out."

Of course Patrick wouldn't let it end on Pete's dramatic exit. He's as tenacious as inspector fucking Colombo when he wants to be.

"Pete— "

"You have better shit to do, apparently, Patrick, so why don't you go _do them_ and leave me _the_ _fuck_ alone."

"You can't tell me this tempo wasn't killing you, either. And you certainly can't tell me that the whole thing wasn't turning into the Pete Wentz Show instead of the Fall Out Boy Show."

"It's not like I wanted it to be like that!"

"It's not like you didn't egg some of the shit on with your behavior, either."

"Hey, _fuck you_ ," Pete spits out, stung.

"Fuck you, too. You know I'm right, even though it wasn't your fault, not all of it."

"Just _go_ , Patrick."

"No," Patrick says stubbornly, and Pete collapses onto the couch in a dejected heap.

Seems like Patrick is determined to rip out the last pieces of Pete's heart directly out of his chest, and without any anesthesia.

Well, fine.

Maybe when he's done, Pete can go take a nap with his kid.

He'd kill for a nap right now.

"You have to understand this isn't about you. Or, it isn't _just_ about you. And the fact that Joe and I want to take a break doesn't mean I don't want to see you."

Well, _that's_ fucking news to Pete.

"Maybe I don't want to see _you_ ," Pete says sulkily, and Patrick laughs, not unkindly.

"Shut the fuck up, you always want to see me."

Patrick sits on the couch next to him and sighs, serious again.

"Look, you're my best friend, you bonehead. Of course I want to see you, and talk to you, and get your opinion on anything I do outside the band."

Things Patrick does outside the band.

That sounds.

Bad.

Ominous.

Like a one-way ticket away from Pete.

Pete's heart is bleeding into his chest cavity.

"I just. I have to try and— and find my own voice. Literally _and_ figuratively. I need some quiet to hear what _I'm_ thinking, hear what I'm saying echoing back at me."

It all sounds so reasonable, like such a small, simple request.

"I have to figure _me_ out. _Patrick_ , away from anyone else. I don't know who that person is, Pete."

Away from _Pete_ , he means.

Pete doesn't understand why Patrick needs to go away to achieve what he wants, or why it feels like he's breaking Pete's bones one at a time as he does it.

But… Patrick needs it.

Pete swallows.

"Okay," he whispers, and prays he can keep it together until Patrick leaves.

He almost cracks when Patrick hugs him at the door, unusually long and hard, but he covers it with a joke and a playful shove.

Patrick walks away easily, _so fucking easily_ , and Pete throws himself back onto the couch and sinks into a month-long barely-functional apathy.

***

Patrick's fine, and he's fine driving home, and he's fine while he's watching tv, and he's fine while making dinner, and then he goes to bed and tries to sleep, and his eyes start leaking.

And they won't stop.

There are no sobs, no hitching breath, no sadness, nothing.

It's just his eyes.

It doesn't stop for hours.

***

They stay in touch.

Patrick does his own thing, Pete his own, Andy and Joe their own.

Pete gets to be a full-time dad. The responsibility terrifies him at first. This kid relies on Pete for literally everything: from food to cleanliness to safety to emotional support to cuddles — basically, the only thing he can do on his own is _breathe_ , and even then it's good to check he's doing it properly.

It's pretty awesome, though. This tiny human he helped create is one of the coolest little dudes Pete has ever met. And he loves Pete, it's clear with every excited scream the kid lets out when he sees him. Even when he ignores Pete it's completely understandable, because there are so many things much more interesting than Pete himself in the world. He starts discovering them alongside his kid, and it's kind of incredible.

The world becomes a softer place, just a little bit.

Pete likes that, a lot.

***

Patrick works on his record.

He works frantically, continuously, with no respite or pause.

He plays every single instrument on the record, learns several new ones and practices the ones he already knows.

He discovers his own taste, and his own abilities, and it's exhilarating. It's worth the occasional loneliness, all the times he turns to ask Pete's opinion and remembers that he's thousands of miles away.

It's his own private little version of a breakdown.

As with most things when he applies himself, he _excels_ at it.

***

Pete's marriage cracks, then breaks into a million pieces that cannot be glued back together.

And Pete, instead of back-flipping into a spiral of rage, depression and anxiety, kind of… flips in the other direction.

' _Enough_ ', he thinks.

He decides to remake himself, be the man he _wants_ to be, not the caricature other people paint him as. It's time to stop bouncing around aimlessly and step on the ball.

Pete starts turning his life around.

***

Patrick keeps in touch. They talk and text and meet up when they can, but his projects make it impossible for him to stay as close as Pete would want him to.

Patrick feels the same but his schedule is way too full to indulge his own feelings. He always did have an overdeveloped sense of obligation.

It's to be expected, honestly. The story wouldn't be what it is if it was easy and simple. The whole _point_ is that they keep narrowly missing each other.

Case in point: Patrick gets a girlfriend.

She sticks.

***

Patrick is happy.

He _is_.

For the first time in his life, he's in a loving, committed, drama-free relationship. His girlfriend is pretty, and kind, and she makes him laugh, and he doesn't know why his brain keeps telling him she's the opposite of Pete in every single way. _That_ doesn't matter at all. Patrick is over that.

Patrick also doesn't deserve her, but when he tries to explain it to her, she just laughs and kisses him on the cheek.

It's not the delirious type of happiness he imagined as a kid, not the breathless sort of adoration or the obsessive focus he thought he'd have on the object of his affections, but that's good. It means Patrick is in a _mature_ relationship, not some teenage, hormone-filled nightmare. They're thinking long-term, they talk about the future, they agree on all the important things. When they have different opinions, they discuss it or compromise.

They almost never fight.

Patrick buries the memories of the fire burning in the pit of his stomach, of his blood singing with challenge and exhilaration, deep inside himself. Fire is destructive. Blood on his teeth is a thing of the past. These are not things Adults are supposed to do. Adults are not supposed to be _angry_.

He is not supposed to want that.

***

Patrick's boxes are starting to pile up.

There are too many of them, holding such dangerous feelings, and so _close_.

The laws of physics apply to the imaginary space, too, and pressure without relief cannot continue indefinitely. The boxes have to be dealt with sooner or later, or they turn into flammable, highly unstable material.

All it needs is a spark.

***

It's the worst fucking timing of them all, with the band on a hiatus and Patrick in a happy relationship and Pete fresh off the divorce with Tiny Bean to think of — and the kid takes his fair share of his attention, that's a given — but like a walking cliche that Pete is…

That _something_ with Patrick he'd been ignoring for so long?

Yeah.

Not so successful with the ignoring anymore.

It's not that he doesn't try, nor that he has an abundance of time to think about it, it's more that it suddenly becomes undeniable. Like the realization has seeped into his being so slowly, so _ruthlessly_ — while he was _sooo_ busy not thinking about it — that he's now _drowning_ in it.

Pete thinks about just going for it, kissing Patrick and letting it all go to hell. It's not like there's a band to fuck up at the moment, just his own stupid heart is on the line. It sounds like something old Pete would do, though — or younger Pete, as it is — selfish and rash.

He thinks about trying to seduce Patrick, get him used to the idea of _them_ , put in some real effort for a change. But everything he can think of is cheesy, or incredibly awkward. Patrick's known him for years, is the thing, and he'd probably look at Pete as if he lost his marbles if he tries any moves on him. _And_ he's seen all the moves before, the good ones and the bad ones and the ones that got him slapped. Adds insult to injury.

In the end, Pete decides to wait.

Maybe Fate would give him an answer one way or another if he just stays quiet and _listens_.

***

It works.

Fate — Destiny, Kismet, Chance, however you may call it — decides to put its sticky fingers into the mess. They've been there before, at the very beginning, and a few subtle, fleeting times in the middle, but now it's become an acute need. The two bumbling human children have wandered off course and The Balance has shifted too far to one side.

So Chance pushes both of them outside their comfort zones, exposes them to extremes they've previously weathered together: Pete into silence and obscurity once he finally returned to and embraced his real self, and Patrick into intense spotlight and hostility as he searched for himself and tried new things. It's an especially cruel way to show them both how much they suit each other, how much better they are together, but no one ever accused Destiny of being kind.

After all, this is a love story, a star-crossed soulmates tale for the _ages_. The entire _world_ knows about it, in one shape or another, which means the very belief in the concept and existence of Fate is compromised on a global scale.

There is more than just two hearts at stake here.

***

Pete calls and says, "Hey, where are you? Haven't seen you in a long time. Wanna hang out?"

Patrick is… drifting. Everything is in such a weird in-between phase that he feels like he's waiting for something, only he doesn't know what, but there's no other direction or indication to follow either, so he's just. Waiting.

"Wanna work on some songs?" Pete says as Patrick tries to come up with some clever way to say ' _yes, I wanna hang out, but also no, I don't want to see anyone right now; just let me wallow by myself_ '. "I have a notebook calling your name."

That is more tempting than it should be. First because Patrick hasn't stopped writing Fall Out Boy songs during the hiatus, putting them in a folder that's hopefully out-of-sight-out-of-mind (but really not) on his computer, and second because it's _Pete_ , and Patrick _misses_ him. He misses writing with him, but also hanging out with him, hearing his weird laugh and listening to the odd tangents his brain goes onto. Before, Patrick had a built-in excuse to be near Pete, or they would be next to each other by default and circumstance. There was no missing him because he was _there_.

But that, honestly, is the root of the problem: letting himself get close to Pete again. Sure, they've tentatively discussed the band just recently, and what it would take for them to get back from the hiatus, but they have no new material yet. And they haven't hung out, just the two of them, for the longest time. It's an emotional minefield Patrick isn't sure how he'll cross, or handle.

Patrick says yes.

Of course he does; was there ever any doubt?

***

So Pete's not very good at waiting, or patience.

Sue him.

***

They meet at Pete's, living room curiously clean, snacks they both prefer arranged on the coffee table, drinks in the fridge (all non-alcoholic, several toddler-friendly), the TV off.

Patrick lifts his eyebrows at Pete but Pete just shrugs, no explanation forthcoming.

It's incredibly awkward for an hour, like a pianist hitting the wrong key every so often while playing and then the soundtrack screeching to a halt, everyone wincing before pretending nothing happened, but Patrick eventually manages to relax. Pete _works_ at getting Patrick relaxed and Patrick can see that. It's almost obvious once you know what to look for, and Patrick _knows_ , he's known Pete and all his behavioral quirks and tells since… pretty much forever.

Not that Patrick is a picture of composure himself in all this; he's been shifting and twitching so much, the tension washing in and out of him over and over again, that he starts getting pains in his fingers and back.

Pete says something that makes Patrick let out a startled laugh, and he'd almost forgotten the feeling, how often Pete made him laugh, and Pete's beaming when he looks back at him, eyes sparkling and beautiful, and then Pete surges forward and _kisses him_ and Patrick falls head over heels into the deep end of the pool.

Because sometimes, _sometimes_ , just one touch of lips is enough.

Patrick wouldn't admit it, _can't_ right now because his brain is occupied by other things, but _this_ is what he expected kissing someone important would feel like, what _lov_ e is supposed to feel like. _Here_ comes the breathlessness and the effortless focus on _one_ person, on one moment, to the exclusion of everything else.

Here is Patrick, lost in sensation for a few seconds. The spark is ignited, his belly is roaring with warmth, emotion, everything he's been suppressing and ignoring and packing away for so long.

But sparks are dangerous.

It blows all of Patrick's boxes to smithereens, and catches both Patrick and Pete in the wake of its destruction.

Mitigating circumstance the first: it isn't just the boxes themselves. It's the fact that this means _so much_ to Patrick, that so much of his very _being_ is tied up in Pete, and that _terrifies_ Patrick to the very core.

Fight or flight or freeze isn't so much a choice as a visceral reaction — and Patrick _reacts_ as violently as his insides did.

He shoves Pete away.

Patrick pushes Pete far away from him, and yells, and _rages_ , and _lies_ about not wanting this, about Pete ruining his life, about Pete being a selfish prick, about Patrick not being a cheater, about the many ways this stupid decision will fuck up their friendship, and their almost-to-be-patched up band.

Patrick says _so many_ awful things, things he wants to take back even as they spill out of his childish, _cruel_ mouth, words so ugly that they turn the corner into unforgivable, and he watches as Pete's face crumples then blanks, and pretends that his own heart doesn't crumple with it, pretends that he _means all this shit_.

He can't stop himself, he can't shut up, and no matter how much he begs in his head for someone to _please_ shut him up, no one does.

Pete just sits there and takes it all.

Mitigating circumstance the second, not that it will make anyone feel better: Patrick _knows_.

He _knows_ , in that very first moment their lips touch, that _Pete_ is the One. He knows Pete is, and always will be, _it_ for Patrick. There simply aren't any other options. He is the beginning and the end, Patrick's first love and last, the sun that's at the center of Patrick's galaxy.

It helps precisely nothing, because humans are fickle and contradictory creatures, and Fear has already spread its wings inside Patrick, blackening the skies and covering everything in hopeless, inky darkness.

Patrick flees.

***

Pete stares after Patrick.

 _Fucked_ that one _up, didn't you? Another notch on your belt,_ Pete's own poisonous voice taunts.

Pete swallows, mouth dry.

The desire to break everything in sight is _overwhelming_.

Pete breathes through it.

The tears rise up, up, _up_ , clawing at his throat.

Pete breathes through that, too.

He goes to his bedroom, lies on the bed slowly, bones creaking, and curls up in a ball so tight his stomach protests.

He doesn't get up for two days.

***

Patrick lasts a week.

That first day, The Day of the Incident, he pretends nothing happened.

Day two is unraveling day, denial going only so far. He decomposes and defragments, shuffles his own basic elements left and right, and _still_ nothing makes sense.

He breaks up with his girlfriend on the third day, unable to behave like a normal human being, _incapable_ of dealing with the presence of literally _anyone_ in his personal space. The explanation he gives is half-coherent and jumbled, but it's clear enough for her to get the gist (' _I don't— I love you but— not enough. Not like I should. I'm so sorry_ ') and slam the door on her way out.

He gets drunk as a skunk days four through six. The memory of those three days is a haze of crying, vomiting, and looking at pictures of Pete on his laptop, shame and longing drowning every cell in his body. His only saving grace is the fact he had the foresight to disable all networks on all devices before going on a bender, otherwise he'd probably make everything a million times worse, in both private and _embarrassingly_ public ways.

On the seventh day, hungover and with no plan or coherent thoughts whatsoever, he gets up, brushes his teeth, showers, and leaves the house.

He goes back to Pete's.

***

This is how Patrick _knows_ that Pete is better than him, that he is and always will be the most generous person Patrick's ever met:

Pete opens the door.

"Hi," Patrick says.

Pete looks at him with eyes somehow devoid of all light, which is a shock because Patrick honestly thought was impossible. Pete's eyes _always_ tell how he's feeling and what he's thinking, it's one of the basics of Pete; and _Patrick_ did this, it's all Patrick's _fault_.

He ducks his head to stare at the tips of his sneakers.

Pete says nothing.

"Can I come in?" Patrick asks quietly.

Pete hesitates, Patrick can see it in the tiny shift of his legs, but he turns around and walks back into the living room after a moment.

Patrick closes the door and follows.

There are toys and clothes strewn across the living room, a tiny Fall Out Boy shirt hanging over the back of the couch, and dirty dishes in the sink. Tiny Bean must have been over recently.

"I— I came to talk," Patrick says once it becomes obvious Pete won't say anything and the silence has grown deadly thorns.

"So talk," Pete says. His voice is hoarse, and it startles Patrick enough to make him look up, and once he does, there's no tearing his eyes away.

Pete won't look at him, and he seems so tired and distant, and Patrick doesn't blame him but it feels like Pete's encased in ice and Patrick will never reach him, not with words and not with a fucking _chisel_ , and Patrick is _so fucking desperate_ , so he steps closer and reaches for Pete, for the top of his hand, fingertips resting on the edge of the dining room table, and Pete _flinches_.

He flinches, and stuffs both hands under his armpits, bunching up his over-sized hoodie, and Patrick feels like the lowest creature that ever crawled the Earth.

"You had a lot of things to say last time you were here," Pete says, voice quiet but firm. It doesn't even sound accusing but Patrick can barely keep the tears from spilling over as it is, regret and shame washing over him in a new wave, something he's become intimately familiar with in the last couple of days.

Talking is a fucking impossibility so Patrick nods.

Pete's eyes flicker to the right of Patrick's head, enough to see the gesture out of his peripheral vision, then he looks away again.

"What changed?" he asks.

Patrick clears his throat to get past the tightness. It works just enough for a hoarse whisper to squeeze through.

"Nothing," he says, and knows immediately it was the wrong thing to say, even as he watches Pete blink a little too hard.

"No, I mean— It's not about things changing, it's about me. Not about me in a selfish way, not an 'it's all about me' thing, it's just that— Like, nothing _physical_ has changed—"

" _Patrick_ ," Pete snaps, rubbing his forehead with one hand, and Patrick shuts up, brain spitting out a panicked ' _when was the last time he snapped at you, look at what you_ did _, you_ killed _whatever feelings he had for you, nice going you worthless piece of—_ '

The tears fall, out of Patrick's control.

"I lied," he whispers.

Pete freezes, eyes flicking in Patrick's direction but again making no contact.

It still gives Patrick a shred of hope.

"I _lied_. You didn't ruin my life, all you've ever done is make it better."

Pete scoffs and Patrick hurries to explain himself.

"I just— I was _so scared_ , Pete. I got scared, and I lashed out, like I usually do when I'm scared, and so I said some stupid things, things I've _never_ believed in— But it doesn't matter why I did it, it's all _excuses_ , I was such an asshole, because— because—"

No one is going to do this for Patrick so he has to.

Even if he's fixing a broken CD with staplers.

"Because I think I've loved you for almost ten years now, and I didn't want to admit it because of stupid pride, because I was afraid of you, and myself, and of rejection or ridicule or what ever the fuck, and I was making all these excuses when all along it was _me_ being afraid, and all that turned me into the bad guy. Into just one more person who _hurt you_.

"So… So I don't, I _can't_ expect anything from you, I just hope you'll be able to forgive me someday. I can't tell you how sorry I am," Patrick finishes.

The tears have dried up, tracks sticky and uncomfortable on Patrick's cheeks. He feels worse for having cried, as if Pete's stoicism is yet another point against him. The wronged party is strong and dignified, while the perpetrator snivels and bawls in hopes of forgiveness.

_Pathetic._

Pete hasn't moved at all, standing still as a statue in front of Patrick, and Patrick realizes, heart sinking, there's nothing more to say. All his explanations, all the apologies, he's said them all and if they're not enough — and they _shouldn't be_ , Pete deserves better than someone petty and mean and _selfish_ like Patrick — then…

Then all that's left to do is leave.

Maybe try again, in a day or two, or a week. See if Pete feels differently about any of it. About him.

Patrick feels sick.

He turns to go, legs weighing ten tons each, when Pete's left hand snaps out and grabs the front of Patrick's hoodie.

Live current jolts into Patrick, head to toe.

Pete stays still, not moving, not looking at Patrick, but not letting go of him either.

Heartbeat drumming away in his ears, Patrick leans into Pete's hand a little bit.

It yields, arm softening, allowing Patrick a fraction of an inch closer.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says quietly, voice shaky, and decides to push his luck and take a small step forward.

Pete's arm offers no resistance.

"I'm sorry," he repeats when he's another step closer to Pete.

"I'm sorry," he says as he steps into Pete, breath moving the tiny hairs on the sides of Pete's head. They look soft and unstyled, as vulnerable as Pete is letting himself be right now.

Fucking courage of a lion, Pete has. Has always had, emotions in the line of fire with no hesitation. Patrick will _never_ forgive himself for being just one more person using them against Pete, cutting a cruel line across the soft tissue instead of handling it as gentle as one would a sapling.

"I'm _sorry_ ," Patrick says plaintively into Pete's cheek.

"I'm sorry," he says, and Pete's trembling, eyes sliding shut and taking with it Patrick's only clue as to what is going on in Pete's mind.

Patrick still continues. He'll apologize and plead and _beg_ for a hundred years, if needed.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Patrick whispers over and over again, pressing gentle, _oh so_ gentle kisses onto Pete's eyelids, cheeks, jawline; _everywhere_ but his mouth.

Pete's mouth is not a privilege he deserves.

Patrick comes back to himself as he's rambling, "—never do anything like that again, I _promise_ , I _swear to god_ , I'll do whatever it takes to make it up to you, I lied, _I lied_ , I _did_ , I love you, I _love you so much,_ Pete, _Pete_ —"

Pete snaps with the mention of his name and slams their mouths together, kissing Patrick with barely restrained violence, and there goes Patrick's breath, poof, _gone_.

Pete kisses him, deep and demanding, and Patrick would rejoice if Pete didn't feel so _brittle_ when Patrick puts his arms on him, if it didn't feel as if Pete is going to _break_ if Patrick makes the wrong move.

So Patrick yields, tries to keep his head through the avalanche of emotions that's burying them both, and turns the kiss into something gentler as soon as he gets the chance, cradling Pete's face in shaking hands.

"I'm here, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, _Pete_ ," Patrick whispers between kisses, letting Pete sink more and more into Patrick, taking his weight and attention gladly, _happily_.

Pete _sobs_ into Patrick's mouth and Patrick's heart slams painfully against his ribcage.

 _Fuck_ , but how much damage he's managed to do in a single stupid move, in five minutes' worth of fear and lashing out.

"Love love _love_ ," Patrick murmurs nonsensically, name and intent and declaration all in one, and Pete doesn't say anything but he's burrowing ever so closer, doesn't allow any air or pause between them, between kisses and touches.

Patrick has never been this immersed into another human being, not his girlfriends, not even _Pete_ himself, who's always had most of Patrick's attention in any given moment. It's the kind of incredible that makes your brain melt out of your ears.

Patrick drags Pete's clothes aside until he can feel the bare skin of his back, slides his hands up, fingers spread, seeking as much contact as he can get. It's enough to make him moan into Pete's mouth, to hear an answering sound rumbling from Pete's chest. Desperation claws at him but Patrick knows better than to let it take over. Now that the impossible has happened and a second chance has been granted to him, he'll do _anything_ to make this a permanent thing, something Pete doesn't regret, _ever_.

He walks Pete blindly towards the bedroom, Pete pliant as long as they're pressed together, whining softly when Patrick backs away for two seconds to take off their hoodies and shirts.

"Shh," Patrick says between deep, drugging kisses, trying to soothe them both; ' _shh_ ' as he follows Pete onto the bed and covers his throat and chest with kisses; ' _shh_ ' as Pete chokes out a protest at Patrick moving down as if he's leaving Pete altogether, as he digs in a request to _come back_ at the wings of his shoulders.

Patrick _does_ , he's never been able to refuse Pete _anything_ , and he covers Pete's lips with his again and again as if his life depends on it, revels in Pete's arms around his body like they're a benediction and Patrick is a starving man in a desert. He falls into Pete without hesitation, without reserve, everything Patrick is and was on display, poured into Pete, and he drinks in every sound Pete makes, builds a melody out of their love.

It sounds like a symphony, and a work of art, and the achievement of a lifetime.

It sounds like _forever_.

***

The Entity known as Destiny sits back in satisfaction, tail swishing.

One more task completed successfully. Two more souls brought together.

_However._

There's one thing no one mentions in these stories, a caveat written in small letters and invisible ink on the last page of a two-inch thick book:

Happily Ever After _isn't_ included in the contract.

And Star-Crossed, Meant-To-Be, and Great can just as easily mean Tragic, Short, and Forever Mourned.

Destiny means _shit-all_ if you don't do the work yourself.

 _You_ are the master of your fate, the captain of your soul.

Haven't you been paying attention?

***

Pete wakes up with a start, nightmare chasing behind him, and looks to the left to see Patrick asleep in his bed.

_Oh._

He twists slowly, taking care not to rock the bed too much, until he's lying on his front, face half-buried into his pillow, the one seeing eye on Patrick.

Patrick.

In Pete's _bed_.

It's kind of like watching an armed bomb, time ticking away to the inevitable explosion, but at the same time strangely peaceful. The torture is over with, and judgment has been passed down. Whatever happens now, Pete got to experience Patrick in ways he never thought he would.

No one can take away his memories. If that's all Pete gets to keep, it'll have to be enough.

"Hey," Patrick says, morning rasp in his voice. "How are you feeling?"

Pete shrugs once with the shoulder closer to Patrick. He doesn't feel like talking at the moment. Non-verbal seems a safe place to be at the moment, with less chance of fucking things up.

His fingers twitch, reaching for Patrick involuntarily — he's _always_ reaching for Patrick, isn't it _enough_ by now, isn't Patrick tired of Pete? — and it draws Patrick's attention.

Patrick shifts on his side, close enough Pete has to move his head back a little so he's not cross-eyed when looking into Patrick's eyes, and covers Pete's hand with his own, still overly warm from sleep. He doesn't say anything, just strokes his thumb over the back of Pete's hand slowly.

They breathe together, eyes on each other, and little by little, Pete starts to believe.

He draws closer, watching Patrick like a hawk, and when all he sees is a smile, he kisses Patrick chastely.

His lips tingle.

Patrick smiles wider, slides a hand into Pete's hair, to the back of Pete's head, and pulls him down again.

They kiss and kiss, until Pete doesn't know up from down, and he lets himself be pushed onto his back, lets Patrick lie on top of him, cocoon him into love and safety and comfort, and he _believes_ that little bit more.

"I love you," Patrick whispers into Pete's ear, and it sends a shiver of surprise and disbelief down Pete's body. But there's a touch of joy somewhere in his core, too, tentatively rearing its head up.

"I love you," Pete whispers back, softly, _so softly_ , the exhale of air louder than the words themselves. After all, it doesn't matter if Patrick hears it now because he'll hear it later. Pete _will_ say it again.

But what matters is that Pete said it and the world didn't collapse, and Patrick didn't disappear; he's still holding Pete, still kissing him, still smiling at him. It's proof Pete doesn't ruin everything he touches, a small victory over his own mind, over the self-made prophecy he created the moment he met Patrick.

The words _needed_ to be said to become a tangible, irreversible thing in his head, and to take Patrick out of the glass bubble and into the realm of _touchable_ , of _possible_.

Of _Pete's_.

Pete's Patrick. What a thought.

Pete attaches himself to Patrick like a spider monkey, arms and legs wrapped around the sleepy warmth of him, and listens to him laugh and hum between the kisses Pete peppers over any part of Patrick he can reach.

He'd spare a thought of gratitude towards whomever's listening for returning Patrick to him, for letting him _keep him_ , but Pete has much more important things to do, and it soon slips his mind completely.

It's just as well. There's no need to draw unwanted attention to oneself.

Fate is fickle, and humans its favorite pastime.

***

The words are what closes the circle formally and ties everything into a neat little ending.

The ritual complete, Destiny turns its formidable gaze on a new target, a trio of people bound too hard by propriety and the ideal of Normal to see what's right in front of their eyes. It has lost all interest in its former charges; in fact, it has already forgotten everything about them, as if they never existed.

Oh, there's no need to worry, that's a _good_ thing.

After all, who could live up to such high expectations, such a constant scrutiny not only from the public eye but from an immortal entity as well?

A weight Pete and Patrick were never completely aware of vanishes like smoke, and they sink _just_ that little bit deeper into dreamless, healing sleep.

***

The noise of the crowd at the _Subterranean_ ebbs and flows in endless waves, and all four of them sweaty and high on performance and contact.

Pete and Patrick can't stop grinning at each other.

It's incredible, the journey they've taken only to end up back here, at the same place only not; a little wiser, a little older, and hopefully smart enough to know better this time around. After all, they've made their mistakes, learned what to hold on to and what to keep far away from, and now there are new territories to explore, brand new mistakes to make.

A whole new relationship to navigate.

And so they scream out the lyrics to _Saturday_ side by side, boldly taking the first steps into the Unknown together — the two of them, the _four_ of them, and everyone else who cares about and is part of this huge, world-wide family four boys from Chicago have somehow created.

It's magic not even Kismet can touch, the power of humans devoted to each other, the feedback of love looping back and forth in an endless cycle.

The charge in the air is palpable, and the change looming over the horizon is clear to every single person there.

The time has come for a new chapter in their lives:

The Future.

~~**The End** ~~

**The Beginning**

**Author's Note:**

> The quote "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul" is from the poem ' _Invictus_ ' by William Ernest Henley.
> 
> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/).


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